I slid the knob to cubed and pressed my glass against the back of the ice dispenser. The freezer coughed up a flurry of crystalline slivers and the substantial thud of a single intact cube followed. I released the button and double-checked the setting. Cubed. "Liar," I called the ice maker, and turned away. On the other side of the kitchen I gripped the handle of my parents’ ancient Krups and flooded the glass of ice with day-old coffee. I watched the dark liquid spread over the shards and listened for the satisfying burst of the solitary cube. I envisioned a glacier shedding an iceberg into the ocean as I added creamer.
"How long are you home for?" my dad asked finally.
I pulled a spoon from the drawer below me and mixed in the cloud of dairy.
"I'm not sure," I said, dropping the spoon into the sink. "It depends on the fares."